


jigsaws

by idolatry (bellmare)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Multi, NaNoWriMo 2015, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-13 23:15:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9146335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellmare/pseuds/idolatry
Summary: Pieces that fit together, and the odd ones in-between that don't.-- Ensemble, random drabbles from random prompts.





	1. upgrades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The old bickering one-two: cybernetic edition.  
> \-- Lysander, Jae.

"Have you ever thought about getting a knee replacement or something?" Lysander asks, watching Jae sit down with the stiff-legged discomfort of a much older person. It really is quite aggravating. "Or maybe you'd like us to cart you to an early retirement home? That can quite easily be arranged. I'm sure you'll have fun. They do a whole lot of nothing there but play bridge and bingo and do square-dancing and maybe complain about their meals on wheels. All those seem right up your alley ... with the possible exception of the square-dancing." 

"What, no. A knee replacement? Are you fucking nuts?" Jae crosses his leg. "It's just a long slide from there on. A slippery slope. And, hey, fuck you, I can totally square dance. I can tango, too. You wanna fucking go?"

Lysander chooses to ignore the challenge. There's plenty of time for that when they're both thoroughly sloshed out of their minds. "A slippery slope to what, exactly?"

"Cyberisation."

"I'm not entirely sure I follow," Lysander says. He's used to quantum leaps of logic from the likes of his sister and the sort of company she attracts, but he's generally accustomed to Jae having the courtesy to make a beeline from point A to point B, simply because he can't be bothered explaining himself.

"First, I get a prosthetic knee. Hip. Whatever. Then it becomes the whole leg. Like Sho. Then what next, full-body prosthetics? Do you know how easily someone can hack a prosthetic body?"

Lysander breathes in deeply. He's half-certain they've had this conversation before. Sometimes, talking to Jae about cybernetics and how they're not that dissimilar to all his favourite gadgets is like trying to teach the concept of object permanence to a very small, stubborn, and obtuse child. "That's why you keep going for maintenance and upgrades."

"Yeah, but you always gotta think about the fact that someone may be a step in front of you. I mean, how'd you feel if I hacked your arm and made you punch yourself in the face?"

Lysander smiles, half because the thought of Jae having the capacity to do that amuses him, and half because he can't quite believe what he's hearing. "If you do, I will see to it that your communications implants malfunction. Painfully."

Jae picks up his laptop and opens the lid. "See what I mean? I'd be worried about entrusting my peripherals to you, you vindictive bastard. Fuck that, I already am. And stop smiling like that, it's creepy. I don't like it when you smile."

"Ming said I should smile more."

Jae chokes out a laugh. "Since when did you ever give a shit about what she said? You always make it a point to ignore her."

"... well, a lot of people said I should smile more. I'm not one to disappoint."

"I can really see the family resemblance between you and Bel when you two start smiling like that. It's freaking me out, please stop. I think I'll have nightmares." Jae leans back in his seat and sighs, lacing his hands behind his head, then utters something akin to a muffled squawk when his recliner chair threatens to tip over. "Anyway, here's another example: the other day, Sho got drunk. Or maybe his peripherals malfunctioned. Whatever, I don't know. Anyway, his foot snagged on the carpet and I swear to god, I think something shot out of his ankle or something, and he blew a hole in the wall." He makes a bunch of incomprehensible noises when he sees Lysander open his mouth to interrupt. "Nope, nuh-uh, shut up. Don't you dare say you had nothing to do with it, you're the damn one who fixed that leg up for him. I know damn well the kinda shit you like cramming into your arm, can't you just make his leg light up and sing Christmas songs instead of potentially shooting someone's kneecaps off?"

Lysander pastes on what he knows is Bel's most patently annoying expression of shameless innocence. He's not quite sure it has the same effect -- he's not as good at looking guileless and surprised as she is, but he's got the expression pretty well memorised. God knows, he's only been subjected to it for his entire life. "Wow, isn't it just a shame you weren't in the vicinity when it happened."

Jae throws him the filthiest look he can muster. "Screw you too. Just go with the Christmas leg suggestions, please, until he at least figures out how to not accidentally maim people when he gets on his tiptoes."

Normally, Lysander would laugh long and loud in his face but this time he relents. "Fine then. You even said please, I feel like it's my lucky day."


	2. misfit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is very wrong with this picture.  
> \-- HP, Millie.

It's cold. Bitterly cold. HP makes a valiant attempt to fold his arms even more tightly, then tries to wedge his hands into his armpits. 

Millie stays silent for remarkably long. When he glances over at her, she's studiously observing her boots. Her fleece-lined heavy winter boots with extra grip and traction on the soles, perfect for slipping and skidding across black ice.

"HP?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you see what's wrong with this picture?"

HP sneezes, explosively. Some tiny icicles part company with his nose. He's certain that more than a few shards of ice also chip off his brows and lashes. "Yes. This wasn't what I had in mind when you told me where we're going."

"I figured," Millie says, and turns the collar of her coat up. She looks very warm and toasty and comfortable, and HP is very cold and chilly and uncomfortable, and more than slightly envious. "Where did you think we were going when I told you we were going to Hell?"

"Oh, gee, I dunno." He stomps his feet. "That it'd be somewhere sweltering? I thought it'd be, in, y'know. A desert. That desert-y place. You know the one."

"That's the Death Valley."

"Yes, that. Lovely name. I can see why it's on the tourist radar." HP waves his hand dismissively, then regrets it the moment the cold hits. Which is very, very quickly. He stuffs his hand back under his armpit. "Whatever. Hell, Death Valley, same thing, they both sound equally inhospitable. Alternatively, I also considered the option that you were being weird and metaphorical again. Look, I like tough posturing and cryptic bullshit as much as you do, but honest to god, I thought you weren't being serious."

"I told you where it was! I'm pretty sure I forwarded the flight and assignment details to you! Don't you ever check your emails? What do you even do with your phone all day?"

HP chooses to ignore the latter half of her outburst, instead focusing on the first, far more easily addressed half. "You didn't! You just told me we're going to Hell! Who even names a city Hell, anyway? Look, I just think it's false advertising. If you name a city Hell, it should be hot. Y'know, because Hell is on fire and shit."

"Not all hells," Millie replies. "Some are cold. Like Cocytus."

"... bless you?"

She ignores him. "I like it," she says after a moment's pause. "Has a really nice ring to it. We should get some postcards, too."

HP laughs, because he suddenly deeply relishes the thought of sending said postcards out to a few people. "Yeah. I bet they say nice things like, ' _welcome to Hell!_ ' or ' _see you in Hell_ ' or _'you should go to Hell_ ''."

"' _Visit Hell_ '," Millie says and snorts. "I'd buy them." She pulls on her gloves, taking her time to work her fingers into them. She's got small hands; there's no chance HP can borrow the gloves off her. "I'd buy them all. I'd love to see the kinda replies I get from the people I send those postcards to. Hmm. I might even send one to Eri."

They fall silent, for several minutes. Eri's name tends to have that effect on people. HP coughs after a while, just to break the chilly, windy silence. "Mils?"

"Yes?"

HP rubs his hands together, and tries to warm them by putting them against his neck. It's a good thing he's always run warmer than most people. "Mind if I borrow your coat? C'mon, I know you have a spare. You always do. You're just like Lysander, you know. At least ten identical coats in the same style and colour. Is that why you get along so well? So that the two of you can stand on either side of Bel and look growly and scowly and intimidating with your identical black coats? Because I dunno if that's your intention, but both of you pull it off rather well. Very effective. Very dissuading."

"Hmm." She gives him one of her sidelong looks. "You trying to butter me up?"

"What, no. I'd never dream of buttering you up, field marshal."

Millie smiles a little, but she's already reaching towards her luggage to dig out the spare coat HP knows she always carries. Just in case the first one gets ruined, or something like that. "What, you don't think I'd like a little buttering up now and then?"

"I can never really tell," HP admits. Millie snorts and unearths the coat. HP takes it gratefully; when he unfolds it, it's a great deal bigger than he was expecting, and he's relieved at not having to attempt to shoehorn himself into clothes meant for someone literally half his size.

Millie watches as he puts the coat on and wrestles with the sleeves for a few seconds. "Luckily for you, I knew this would happen. You can call Kazimir to thank him later."


	3. novelty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Return within 10 working days for a full refund.  
> \-- Yong, Bel.

The microwave goes off at one in the morning, filling the air with the smell of chocolate. It's accompanied by the tinny refrain of _Auld Lang Syne_. For god's sake. It's been going on for almost half a week. 

Yong turns over and tries to flatten her pillow over her head. Alternatively, perhaps she should force Bel to let her to subside back into half-summoned stasis if this continues any longer. On second thought, perhaps that's not a viable option. 

She can hear the sound of Bel depositing herself on the armchair, presumably draping her legs over the arms. From the sound of it she's eating straight from the cup. The fork clinks against the side of the porcelain, then rattles a few more times for good measure.

Exactly two minutes later, she goes to make another cup. The microwave goes off again after a while. 

Yong listens to the sound of Bel's fork clanging obnoxiously loudly against the sides of the cup several more times, the prongs squeaking and scraping across the base.

Bel gets up to make a third, then a fourth, and then a fifth serve of whatever she's been eating. Yong thinks she'll go mad if she hears that midi arrangement of _Auld Lang Syne_  play again.

Midway through the seventh rendition of the song, she can hear the sound of Lysander's voice. "What're you doing? Go to sleep."

"I'm making charming little teacup brownies," Bel says, determinedly rattling her fork some more. "Want one? I think I've got the recipe and method perfected. They're actually quite nice, trust me."

"No, thank you. I was just getting to sleep."

"Oh." Bel seems to sound slightly contrite. Just slightly. "Sorry."

"... I'm sure that whatever you're doing has ..." Lysander pauses for a very long time. Yong can imagine the expression on his face as he attempts to pick the right word. "... a  _point_ to it," he finishes rather lamely. He doesn't sound convinced. If anything, he's starting to sound annoyed. "Look, if you're hungry, why don't you just make a big one? I'm sure Millie won't mind you accompanying her for her midnight pastry bonanzas."

"Because," Bel says, "I'm also trying to make a point. C'mon, try some. It's surprisingly good for something you can make in a few minutes with five ingredients."

"There's none left. You wait until you're done to start offering to share? Typical."

"When there's a will, there's a way."

"What do y--mmph." Lysander cuts off mid-sentence; he sounds half-exasperated. Yong can imagine him rubbing his forehead while he debates how best to deal with Bel. The silence lasts a bit longer. Though, judging from the sound, perhaps that isn't what he's doing at all. Someone hums under their breath, the sound soft and muffled and fading into a sigh. Someone breathes in, rather loudly and unevenly. "Fine. It's pretty good. I guess."

Bel takes her sweet time with answering. "Told you so," she says. There's a distinct note of smugness in her voice.

"Okay, point taken. But  _why._ "

"I want things to be delicious while I'm trying to make a point. If I have to suffer, it had better be worth it. Delicious, sweet suffering."

There's another prolonged pause. "Suffering," Lysander repeats, deadpan. "Sure, okay. Don't take too long, then."

It's around the eighth time that Yong finally snaps. She yanks her door open and stomps towards Bel. Bel gazes innocently at her, mismatched eyes wide in mock surprise.

"Ah, perfect, just the person I was looking for," Bel says. "I was meaning to tell you about how nice this microwave this is. Worth every bit you paid! It truly is a gift to us all."

Yong curls her fingers into her palms. "Okay, Bel, I get it, you hate the microwave! It was a mistake! Fine, I'll return it tomorrow!"

Bel sets down her fork and smiles beatifically. "Good," she says. "I was starting to get sick of all the chocolate."


	4. gearshift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Choe Yuna: road menace in the making.  
> \-- Yuna, Jae.

Yuna starts to have her doubts about her driving instructor the moment they get into the car. Or, more accurately, the moment he opens his mouth and starts talking. 

Jae adjusts his seat and leans back, stretching out his legs and propping his elbow on the windowsill. "All right, let's roll. First, you start your engine. Or adjust your mirrors, whatever. Or put your seatbelt on, I guess. That's kinda important."

"You don't seem very certain," Yuna says, skeptical.

Jae turns his head to stare at her, looking insulted. "What are you talking about, I'm an excellent driving instructor, I know exactly what I'm doing."

Yuna stares straight ahead and tightens her grip on the steering wheel. The leather squeaks beneath her palms, which are starting to feel sweaty and clammy. Slippery hands on a steering wheel sounds like a hazard, so she hastily wipes her hands against her skirt before grabbing the wheel again. "Um ... sorry, I have a question?"

"Yeah?"

"No offense, but, um, sorry, uh, is your driving license even legal? Or did you bribe the examiner?" She blurts this out very fast and very quietly, trailing off at the end. 

"Sorry, what?" Jae asks. "I didn't quite catch that."

"Nothing." Yuna sticks the key into the ignition and starts the engine. It rumbles in a way that doesn't reassure her at all. Worriedly, she checks the mirrors again. "Okay, what next?"

Jae points at the contraption between them. "This here is the PRNDL." The way he pronounces it makes it rhyme with the chips brand. 

Yuna stares first at him, then at the thing he's gesturing at. "The gearstick? Stick shift?"

"The PRNDL," Jae repeats with complete seriousness. Yuna has no idea whether he actually means it. She's also too afraid to ask for clarification. "It's called the PRNDL."

"Are you sure you even got your license ...?"

"Sorry, kid, you'll have to speak up."

"Er, never mind. What next?" she asks again.

"Turn off the handbrake and then reverse out of the parking bay."

"Okay," Yuna says. She changes the gear and steps on the accelerator. They rocket forwards and Jae yanks the handbrake, pulling it up sharply before the car can make its front fender very well acquainted with the pillar in front. Yuna allows herself a moment to be quietly amazed. For someone who acts so sluggish and lazy, he sure has fast reflexes.

"Wrong gear!" he barks. Then, more quietly, he adds on "shit, what the fuck, I said reverse. I think I saw my life flashing before my eyes."

"Oh. Um, sorry. Um, got a bit nervous. You're making me nervous," she adds in a smaller voice, but Jae doesn't seem to hear. That out of the way, Yuna stares down at the gearstick and makes sure to move it to the one marked with a big, red letter R. Again, she steps on the accelerator. 

They shoot out of the lot; she hastily stomps on the brake before she crushes the front bumper of the vehicle behind, and the car wrenches to a stop. Jae's elbow slides off the window sill, his head smacking against the doorframe. Yuna's neck, chest, and shoulder hurts from where the seatbelt cut into. She hastily yanks up the handbrake and rubs her neck, trying to will her heartbeat into slowing down a little.

"Wow, you ... uhhh, really need to work on your reversing and your ... everything," Jae says once he's done rubbing his head and coughing. He seems to be having trouble figuring out whether he wants to rub his bruised head -- where he'd hit it against the roof -- or his neck, where the seatbelt had tightened across. He settles for distractedly patting both.  "No wonder nobody else wanted to volunteer to teach you how to drive. But don't worry, we'll make a drag racer outta you yet. Okay, that's it for our lesson today."

"W-what?"

"I'm going to get a crash helmet and protective gear," Jae says, and opens the door. "And maybe update my insurance policies. Car insurance and life insurance and personal injury insurance ... I wonder if Bel's _noblesse oblige_ extends to vehicular fatalities ...?"


	5. existentialism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best place to figure yourself out with other people. Or at their houses. Same thing.  
> \-- Aika, Ming.

It's been a long day -- starting at six in the morning with meeting classmates for group assignments and ending at eight in the evening with narrowly avoiding banging her head against a wall because of software issues and technical malfunctions at the computer labs. By the time Aika makes it back to the apartment, she's looking forwards to lounging in a bubble bath for a very, very long time -- maybe even with a bottle of cider, if she's feeling particularly indulgent -- and perhaps watching cheesy rom-coms until she passes out. Perfect way to ring in the weekend, really. 

The first part of that goes off without a hitch, and Aika has a nice, leisurely soak for the better part of an hour, until the bathwater starts turning cold and the fluffy soap suds have all but dissipated. The next phase passes easily enough, too -- she's cracked open another bottle of cider and preparing to marathon through the last few episodes of a show she's been really invested in; hopefully the main character doesn't do something utterly stupid and swan off with the asshole primary love interest.

She wakes up at about one in the morning with no memory of watching the last two episodes. Her mouth feels dry and sticky, and with a start she realises the bottle she'd had in her hand is gone. Worse, still, is the fact that there's someone weighing down the other end of the couch and munching obnoxiously loudly on something.

"I hope this is a bad dream," she says out loud, determined not to open her eyes and confirm her suspicions. The chewing does not stop. If anything, it intensifies in volume. 

"Were you really watching that?" a very familiar voice drawls. "Cliched to hell and back. But the main character's a cutie. The plot sucks, though. She ended up with--"

"Shut up!" Aika barks, eyes snapping open. Sadly, she is treated to the very familiar sight of a very familiar demon draped across the other end of the sofa as though she belongs there -- or, worse, owns it -- and eating a sandwich. Aika shuts her eyes, then slowly opens them again, though she knows better than to expect Ming to magically disappear. At least Ming had the courtesy to use a plate for her sandwich, unlike some people. Aika is glad for the tiny crumb -- here, she snorts a little to herself -- of comfort. "Why are you in my house?!"

Ming barely glances away from the show she's watching. Aika doesn't recognise it; she doesn't follow all that many series -- just doesn't have the time to. "Because it was the closest," Ming replies with her mouth full.

"No." Aika rubs her eyes, and then the rest of her face, for good measure. " _Why_ are you in my house?"

"What nuances," Ming comments. "Well, it's simple. See, I thought about my existence and suddenly felt lost."

"What."

"Well, no, it wasn't just that. Jae's is closer to where I was, but he didn't have anything to eat. Because he already ate everything, and that sucks. That he ate everything and didn't even have the courtesy to leave any for me. Jerk."

"You could, I dunno, buy your own food," Aika says.

"What?! No! Don't be silly. Food always tastes the best when it's free. And from other people."

"And ... that relates to breaking into my house and parking yourself in my living room? Y'know, I've always wondered how and why you keep inviting yourself into people's places and being annoying like this. Don't you usually stay with Yuna? How did you even get in here?"

"I asked her for the keys, duh. You can achieve a lot of things in life if you ask other people nicely." Ming sniffs. "You ought to try it sometimes. And sure, I do usually hang out with Yuna, but sometimes the best place to figure out who you are is in someone else's house," she continues through a mouthful of chicken, lettuce, cheese, and tomato. "Hey, think about buying some mayonnaise next time."

Aika threads her fingers through her own hair and resists the urge to pull at it. "What, so now it's my turn for my house to serve as your site for existential navel-gazing?"

Ming looks at her pityingly, and even has the gall to pat the top of Aika's head. "Well, yeah, of course. I'm glad we cleared that up!"


	6. plagiarism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every relationship has its limits.  
> \-- Rui, Lavi.

"Ah." Rui makes himself comfortable on Lavi's desk, knocking over a stack of papers in the process. He can't quite make out what's written on them; they seem to be annotated, with edits and corrections made in both red ink and pencil. He bends to pick them up; Lavi beats him to the punch. "What's that?" 

"Nothing important," Lavi replies, re-aligning the edges of the stack. "Get your ass off my table."

"Oho." Rui crosses his legs and leans forwards, resting his elbow on a knee. "You seemed to like it well enough there the last time. Hell, you didn't even say anything when I knocked over that stupidly heavy stack of textbooks. Or was it you? I forget. Wait, you probably didn't say anything because you were too busy--"

"Shut up! That cut a few years off my life. I thought everyone in the floor below probably heard those books fall."

Rui snickers behind his hand. "I'm pretty sure they just assumed you were finally getting laid. I think I even heard some applause, too. You poor bastard, it's like the entire complex knows about your dry spell. What's this?"

He picks up another stack of papers and holds them out. Lavi shrugs and waves it back towards him. "Reports and statements."

"Cool. Am I in them?"

"Maybe."

"Nice, all the more reason to read it. I wanna see what rude things you have to say about me to your bosses." He flips through the pages a few times, then puts the papers down. "No, seriously. What's that thing you're not letting me read? Why can't I see it?"

When Lavi doesn't reply, Rui leans closer and lowers his voice. "Is it porn?"

Lavi sputters and pushes him away. "Wh-- no! Why does your mind always go there? Why can't you think normal thoughts like normal people? Maybe they're confidential!"

"Wow, look at you go." Rui leans back again, kicking his legs out and narrowly avoiding clipping Lavi on the arm. "My mind goes there only because you're acting so evasive. You let me read your supposedly confidential Bureau field reports, but not that?" Rui sits back, placing his weight on his hands. "... so, if it's porn, am I in it?"

"Fuck-- no! For the last time, it's not porn, and even if it was, you're not in it!"

"... wow, this really just keeps getting more interesting. And you keep digging yourself into a deeper and deeper hole. It's kinda funny. Scratch that, it's really funny. You get so embarrassed! You just make it so easy to give you shit about this, y'know." Rui snorts to himself, then refocuses his attention to the very fascinating matter at hand. "So, what kinda stuff do you even get off to?"

"Shut up, okay, stop talking about that. It's my thesis. Or, er, my thesis outline. Look, it's a work in progress."

"Wait." Rui turns to look at him, incredulous. "Wait, lemme get this straight."

He gestures at the papers scattered around the table, and the diagrams and annotated journal articles stacked by the desk lamp and lined up against the wall. He points at the stack of papers Lavi's still holding. "Wait, so you're trying to tell me that we can have sex, but I can't read your thesis outline?!"

Lavi tries to push Rui off his desk. "Yeah, that's exactly what I'm saying."

"What the hell, man?"

"I'm on a scholarship! And I'd also prefer nobody sees my drafts, they're drafts for a reason."

"I --wh-- why do you even care? It's not like I'm gonna judge you on spelling dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane wrong, or something."

Lavi stares at him. "See, this is why I didn't want to study chemistry."

"... wait. Hold the phone. You're right, this brings up a whole new can of worms. What do you even study?"


	7. domesticity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the right company, even taxes can be an adventure.  
> \-- the old guard.

Lysander looks around, wiping a smear of blood off his face. His sister squats on her haunches before one of the bodies, the lone half of her Sword planted on the ground behind her. She's perched with her elbows propped on her knees, looking all in the world like an indulgent aunt of some kind visiting her niece's playtime tea party and attempting to mooch imaginary scones and tea from said child. At the thought, Lysander shakes his head, a little. Perhaps he's been watching too much daytime TV on his days off. Did he seriously just compare Bel to an idyllic family scene? He feels the erratic, irrational urge to burst out in a fit of very inappropriate laughter. Oblivious to the machinations whirring through his mind, she sighs loudly and almost theatrically. 

"What now."

"Oh, I don't know," she says absently, chin cupped in her gloved hands. "I was just thinking, it's almost tradition now, for some enterprising thaumaturgist or another to try their luck at ambushing me after a regional mass." She continues to sigh and hem and haw a little to herself. Lysander has no idea how she can even act that casual; she seems completely unaware of the fact that the hem of her coat is trailing in the snow, the dark fabric stained even darker with all manners of blood and viscera. He's half-expecting her to start complaining about dry-cleaning. Or maybe about how much the coat cost her, and look at the inconsiderate buffoons who went and ruined it, just look, this is unacceptable. With a start, he realises she's continued talking again, though this time she sounds distinctly more bored. "You'd have thought the mercenary sort stopped trying to cash in on the one area the Bureau decided to abandon. I mean, it's not like they've ever been successful. Can you imagine, they've even tried attacking Euphemia? Ridiculous."

"Every bit as ridiculous as trying their luck on you. Euphemia is ..." Lysander hesitates. "Euphemia's more, uh, predictable. Structured," he adds, somewhat unhelpfully. 

"You think so?" Bel asks. Millie overhears and snorts loudly.

"Oh, yeah, I do indeed think so," she says, voice muffled by her mask. "If anything, she thinks the freelancers are even more deranged for going after you, given your track record and reputation."

"Aw." Bel sounds pleased. "It was so nice seeing her again. And Kazimir, too." She gets up without so much as swaying or staggering, despite having squatted in the same position for so long, and preoccupies herself with dusting off the front of her coat. "It's very sweet of Effie to say all those nice things about my track record and reputation. She's really being too kind. I really do miss her."

"Bel, everyone on this side of the continent knows about your colourful and checkered reputation and track record," Lysander says. "Otherwise, they're an idiot. Or living under a rock. Or both an idiot _and_ living under a rock. Everyone knows about the goddamn whackjob in the furs and tiger mask who's top dog on the continent."

"Too kind," Bel repeats. She sounds like she's getting misty-eyed.

Lysander is entirely certain she did not hear a single thing he just said. He wants to hit his head against a wall. Unfortunately, they are out in the middle of nowhere and supposedly trekking back to their transport. Perhaps he can settle for hitting his head against a tree, instead. "For god's sake. Put your concealment wards back on. The last thing we need is the Bureau's surveillance demons picking up on the magic activity in the area and come swooping in looking for trouble. Even you aren't that stupid." He pauses to crack his knuckles, each pop satisfyingly loud. "Or are you?"

Bel seems to ignore him, but a moment later the outline of her Sword shivers and fades away. She gets to her feet, brushing snow from the top of her head. "It's not stupidity, darling. It's because I have such a wonderful team at my disposal, and I need to put them through their paces now and again. Make sure they're still up to snuff." He can't be sure, but Lysander can almost swear Bel winks at him. "It's a demanding and grueling job you guys have, I have to make sure you're still the best, right? Job security is an illusion."

"Ha, ha. You're a riot."

"Careful, now. Remember who you're talking to. I'm still your superior."

"Funny of you to play that card now."

"You guys are adorable," a new voice cuts in. Jae strolls over, no longer wearing his mask. It's propped on top of his head, the gold rim winking in the moonlight. "Oh, no, by all means, carry on. Don't stop on my account."

Lysander almost snarls. "I think you ought to worry about your own job security first."

Jae frowns, crossing his arms. "So touchy," he says in a way that's extremely reminiscent of Ming.

"I quite like this," Bel interrupts without turning around or addressing the spat. She folds her arms behind her back, twining her fingers together. The wind picks up slightly, stirring and ruffling the ends of her pale hair. "It's like a little adventure each time we go home!"

Lottie chooses that moment to wander over. "An adventure," she repeats and laughs, as though not sure what to think. "An  _adventure_? Wow, I gotta say, that's very flippant, even by your standards."

Finally, someone halfway sane. "Isn't it?" Lysander asks, glad that for once, someone agrees with him. "Why can't we ever have normal adventures? No swords. No scuffles or fistfights or broken bones. No dead thaumaturgists. Why do your adventures always have to end in casual bodily harm? Or worse?"

"Because  _they_ want the encounter to end in casual bodily harm, or worse," Bel says in a distinctly pouty manner. "Mine," she adds, somewhat unnecessarily. "I just like taking preventative measures. Give them a little scare so they'll think twice about poking their noses in my business again. They should stick to frying smaller fish first."

"What you like," Lysander snaps, "is playing with your goddamn prey. Clearly your methods aren't very effective, seeing as how they keep coming back for your head."

Bel spread her arms wide, palms upturned. "What can I say? I just have so much charm and charisma. It's positively magnetic. I can't help it if I keep attracting people who want to see what the big deal is."

"Maybe it'd be more effective if you killed everyone else and roughed up one, just enough to serve as a messenger. Just before they expire," HP says. "For all you know, maybe whoever's running the show keeps thinking their hit teams got lost and stranded or fell into some exceptionally bad luck, or something."

"Oh, HP," Millie says, disparaging. "Not everyone's like you. Getting lost even with GPS. Amazing."

"I  _am_ their exceptionally bad luck," Bel says, completely without a trace of irony.

"I'd prefer it if we stuck to having small, domestic adventures," Lysander says. He's thinking about a far more mundane life. Frankly, it sounds a lot more pleasant and stress-free. "Boring, domestic adventures about buying a new kind of cereal. Or leaving your taxes until a bit too late. Is that really too much to ask?"

Jae almost trips and skids on a patch of weaponised liquid metal Lysander has yet to pack away. He doubles over in a fit of laughter that takes a very long time to peter out. "Do you even hear yourself? We already  _do_ have adventures like that. For your information, you don't even like it when I start on the taxes three days before they're due. You don't even like trying new cereal, either. You're such a spoilsport."

"You keep buying disgusting cereal for children, and I don't like surprises," Lysander says, pulling out a carrying tube. "Particularly if they come from you. The last surprise I got from you was a call from the accounts department, wanting to know what you were doing with your company card."


	8. tables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the right situation and context, tables can be very threatening.  
> \-- Ming, Yuna, Lin.

"You know, I've always found falseforms kinda interesting," Yuna says, watching Ming out of the corner of her eye. 

"Oh yeah?" Ming says. She gazes intently at the person on the TV screen, subtly shifting her own features to match. "Why's that?"

"Ummm ... I guess it's because, y'know." Yuna gestures vaguely in the air. "I guess it's because, seeing a show you're shapeshifters, you get all the choice in the world, and yet you always go back to the same old thing. N-not that it's a bad thing or anything!" she adds hastily, because this is Ming she's talking to, and Ming has a truly admirable talent in twisting and skewing people's words. If Bel is to be believed, Ming is exactly the kind of demon who's turned on many a summoner who were not too precise about how they worded their commands. Yuna does not want to test out that theory anytime soon. Or anytime in her life, for that matter. "I mean, I think it's just very ... interesting."

"Oh." At the sound of her voice, Yuna turns to face Ming head-on, only to find herself looking right into the face of the television personality that's currently on-screen. The resemblence is uncanny; faithfully copied, down to a few of the interviewer's errant hairs escaping from their stylish hairdo. Before her eyes, the interviewer's features shift and smooth back into Ming's normal appearance. Ming yawns very widely. "Well, it's habit, mostly. Because it feels right."

"What d'you mean, feels right?"

"I dunno." Ming flops back against the cushions and scratches one of her horns. "Some of us may cycle through tons of appearances and change them up all the time, but there are always some traits we go back to. It feels comfortable. It's very much the same as when people keep wearing the same old outfit every single day, even if they have, I dunno, thirty different shirts." As if to illustrate her point, she pats absently at her own shirt, teasing at the fabric beneath her fingers. "Everyone has their favourite shirt. It feels softer, warmer, more comfortable. Better-worn. It fits in all the right places. It may not necessarily be the most beautiful or the most flattering, it may be covered with old bleach stains or whatever, but you still like wearing the same old thing if given the choice, in your own downtime." She lifts a sharp, angular shoulder in a shrug. "It's the same for us. A touch of comfort. That even after all the falseform changes, even after our true form keeps subtly fluctuating as we get older and more powerful and assimilate more of the ones we devour, you can't help but hold on to something."

Ming falls silent for a while, and stretches out her hand, studying her fingers and knuckles. She opens and closes her hand a few times, then wiggles her fingers. They're long and slender, her wristbones jutting out sharply -- just like she is everywhere else. Sharp cheekbones, chin, pointy elbows and shoulders; her build is straight, angular planes and unsoftened edges. "You ever heard the expression, 'the more things change, the more they stay the same'? It's the same principle. We all have a preferred falseform. Something that marks us as, well, ourselves. It's quite weird, considering a falseform is, y'know. False. While our true form is what we really look like, yet even that can change. But the falseform, at least, is under our power. It's our own choice, what we choose to look like."

Yuna blinks at her, taken aback. She was expecting something irreverent and flippant, especially from the likes of Ming. "Wow," she says slowly. "I had no idea. That's ... that's actually kinda cool."

"Pfft, sure, whatever. Why're you asking?"

"Um, no reason." Yuna fidgets with the zipper of one of the cushions. "So if you wanted to, you could take the form of, I dunno, a bird? A helicopter?"

Ming snorts. "What'm I, some comic book hero? Yeah, sure, if I really wanted to. I could probably give that coffee table--" She points at it with her foot. "--a run for its money."

"Oh," Yuna says again. "Uh, okay then."

Ming stretches her arms out above her head and yawns expansively. "But I won't. Because, one, that'd be dumb. Who the hell gets intimidated by a table? What the hell can a table even do?"

On the next armchair over, Lin has been watching the exchange with no small degree of bemusement. He makes a few short, truncated gestures. Ming stares at him, brow furrowed, then turns back to Yuna. "Translation?"

Yuna stares at him too, trying to decipher his meaning. She's pretty good with sign language, but hasn't gotten the hang of his shorthand and abbreviations. "You can ... throw them at people," she reads. Lin nods, looking completely serious. "I guess you're right. Throwing tables at people seems very, I dunno. Like a pub brawl."

Ming blinks slowly and incredulously at her. "What, like you've seen so many pub brawls."

"I don't live sheltered under a rock! I watch TV! And read!"

"Sure, okay. Fine, I guess you can throw tables at people," Ming concedes. "But what about if  _you're_ the table? What're you gonna do, throw yourself at someone? That's just weird and stupid. Have you ever heard of tables throwing themselves at people?"

Yuna starts to wonder how she got herself into this conversation. "No?"

"Exactly. I guess you could turn yourself into a table with stuff on it," Ming adds, looking thoughtful. "A fun and confusing assortment of stuff, to make people even more unsure of just what the hell they summoned. Did they summon a table? A grimoire? Some dried herbs? We shall never know. And then you can have fun throwing all that stuff at them."

Yuna is now entirely certain she has no idea what they're talking about. Just a typical afternoon with Ming, then. 

Ming continues, undeterred and unaware of Yuna's struggle to keep up with her train of thought. "... I mean, sure, you can totally turn yourself into a table and throw yourself at someone, but that'd just broadcast to your summoner that you're probably really weird, or something. Stylish and unorthodox, but ultimately very, very weird."

"... you make it sound like there's more than one reason you never turned into a table. And that you've actually considered it."

"Actually, now that I think about it. Maybe I should do that. I mean, imagine you're some hotshot summoner who thinks they know exactly what they're doing. Then, you call up something from the Naraka and you expect it to look cool and awesome, y'know? And then ... the smoke clears ... and you see it."

"A table?"

Ming snaps her fingers. "Damn straight. And you're confused as shit. What are tables even weak to? Fire? Well, tables generally do ignite pretty well. Or is it wind? I mean, you can blow all the stuff off the table. That counts, right?"

"... right."

"Yes, exactly. Anyway, then you're this hotshot summoner, confused as hell over the thing in the next schematic over. Congratulations, you've successfully summoned a hostile table. A hostile demon table."

Yuna exchanges glances with Lin. He shrugs. "A hostile demon table," Yuna repeats. "That's ... it sure has an interesting ring to it."

"It does, doesn't it? But, see, you don't know that, and you break the summoning wards and go check it out. Then -- wham! -- said hostile demon table eats you and fucks off merrily."

Yuna stares at her. "I ... I ... I don't know what to say. I think that's a pretty awful way to go, though. Being killed and eaten. By a table."

"Exactly. I'm glad we're on the same page; you're not too bad. But you know what, I'm totally doing that next time. Next time I go out on a job, I'm totally going as a table. Lin can carry me ... and look like a great big suspicious weirdo. Nobody will know what even hit them. Well, I mean, they will. They'll see a hostile table." Ming pauses for effect, as though savouring the weird string of sentences she's about to spew. "A hostile demon table."

Lin, quite literally, puts his foot down and holds his arms out before him in a giant 'x' sign. Ming sticks out her tongue. "You're such a spoilsport. Maybe you should try it sometime. Being a hostile demon table. I know being hostile is a bit of a challenge for you, but try to work with me, here. I'm trying to help you have some fun. Be more appreciative."


End file.
